


She Dances in Slow Motion

by dechagny



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Dirty Dancing, F/M, Forbidden Love, Implied Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, POV First Person, Prose Poem, Slow Dancing, wink wink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 20:26:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9255290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dechagny/pseuds/dechagny
Summary: Lord Melbourne watches Queen Victoria dance but soon they're doing a dance of a different kind.





	

She dances in slow motion. 

The band in the corner keep their eyes on her, they keep their thoughts on her, they keep their instruments in tempo with her. She's their conductor; not the man with baton in front of them, moving his hands in swift, deliberate motions that flow as easily and naturally as a stream. It's always her that they are watching for any signs of change; for any signs that her heart and body wish to move to a different rhythm. Her body is a baton when she dances, conducting the floor, the people around her and the music they hear.

Being her, she is fickle in only a few pleasures. She dances as though she is not their Queen but rather as a girl in her early twenties, longing for a normal youth she cannot, and will not, have. She dances because she loves to dance and not just because they expect her to do her duty and dance. 

She thanks each dance partner with a courtly smile and the most respectful of bows without fail every time. In evenings like this she forgets she's their Queen, their sovereign – I know she does because I can see it in her features. Her smile is unburdened and her skin glows with every touch and every step. Her eyes sparkle brighter than the diamonds around her neck as the champagne bubbles fizzle and die on her tongue. She doesn't see her mother looking disdainful, or the members of the court who think she's doing it all wrong. She dances as does because she knows her own mind and she knows her own heart. 

She dances in slow motion.

Her hair falls over her shoulder as she turns her gaze away from the man in her arms. It brushes her neck and dances in time with her. The light from the chandeliers gives the dark of her more warmth and depth – the kind of warmth you can get lost in. I can imagine what kind of silk her hair is made of and what it feels like to have it between my fingers as she dances. It's soft and luscious and tickles as the movement of her feet reverberates through her bones, her muscles, her skin...her hair. Caroline's hair had danced once or twice, but this time it's different. I'm old and I'm greying but the Queen is young and dark. So she dances as such and with no-one quite like me. (I have never been more glad.)

There's a faraway look on her face. Sometimes her smile falls when she dances and her eyes gaze past the crowd that gather to watch her. They mutter to each other that she's like her grandfather, but they tell her to her face that she's like her father. That she dances like her mother. That she has the determination of a Queen from a long time ago. That faraway look when she dances tells the country that she's calm, but the whites of her eyes and the blue that cuddles them move like she's searching for something more. Her eyes dance as much as she does, but they go at a pace that her feet cannot possibly copy.

Often I think it's a miracle that she dances as elegantly as she does. The material they swaddle her in surely must anchor her body to the ground. Her legs and feet always hide beneath layers of petticoat and velvet but still she tells the band exactly what she needs to, with nothing more than a step and a turn of the head. She dances - I think she is a miracle. 

She dances in slow motion. 

But she saunters more than she walks. She takes larger steps than her stature suggests and her face has the confidence of a thousand men. She knows what she wants as she elongates her body and smiles to bear pearls – her skin suits both diamond and pearl. Her eyes hold mine and they beg me not to look away. I would never; I could never. She asks me to dance with her and she's far from tentative now – she knows she's my Queen and she knows I'll always dance with her. She's ignoring the whispers and I know I should too. A Queen can do what she likes, but a Prime Minister can't act in slow motion.

I can only put my hand in hers and caress the small of her back like she expects me to...like I want to. Usually she's so firm when she dances, but she's soft under my touch in a way that I know. Suddenly we're both dancing in slow motion and those I could see so clearly before are hazes at the corner of my eyes. Her body commands a slower tempo of the band and they oblige. I command myself to twirl and let her silk brush against my fingertips; let her skirts snare my ankles; let her being take my heart from me again. We dance in slow motion until we stop. She's looking at me and her lips are trembling, which only makes my blood flow in slow motion.

There's a moment that goes by in slow motion and she's silently asking me for a dance alone. I let go. The band stops playing – briefly – then begins again at the nod of her head. In the music I take back my heart and leave to put everything in me, and in her, back into motion. 

She dances in slow motion.

But she's not dancing any more. Her shoes are following me down the corridor and her voice commands so much attention and respect as she calls my name. M. It echoes on the walls and I cannot ignore her. She tells me she wants to dance with me again and not those other men – she really can't see how people look at her or hear what they're saying about her. Or me. It's as though she's living her life in slow motion. She falls on me and those delicate hands of hers clutch at my jacket: they're desperate like me. 

We're skin to skin and breath to breath. She tastes like champagne and smells like the sweetest garden and it's one that I want to explore again. I want to touch every petal and nurture every flower. I know she wants the same.

She kisses in slow motion.

There's a freckle on her nose that I've not seen before when I've watched her dance. When I've watched her speak, when I've watched her every step of the way. Almost in slow motion she's changing day by day and I want to watch every freckle as it kisses her skin. I want to wipe every tear and move with her in every dance that she asks me to. Her heart is beating against mine as she slowly begins to take it again – a bad habit of hers, I think. She wants my heart so desperately and this time I'll let her keep it. I can't hear the band in my ears but I can feel how soft the nape of her neck feels under my hand.

Her touches are lighter than air as she brushes my skin to pimples. I've seen her paint Elizabeth and all of her strength – Elizabeth and the Queen: they're one and the same - and now it seems she's painting me in all my weaknesses. The brush of her hands are memorising how I crumble when she touches my cheek; whispers my name; teases my thigh; kisses and sucks at the skin of my neck that is thinner than I remember. 

It's not in slow motion now. Before I know it I'm looking at the ceiling of the Queen's chamber. She's bearing down on me, breathless (but so am I), and I've seen the Queen so vulnerable before - tonight she looks like the first time she did when we did this particular dance. Her shoulders are bare and her skin is exposed but still she feels like velvet. I loved her in slow motion – careful not to play this game again. But tonight we've won and soon she's dancing on me in slow motion. The moan slips from her lips more naturally than expected so I hold her through it and tell her I adore her – that I love her – she tells me I'm all she desires.

She makes love in slow motion. 

She's sweet against my mouth and the sweat drips down her nose. She's looking at me with bliss, curling her fingers in the wool of my hair and ignoring the stubble that scratches her thighs. The flesh of her stomach glows pink and warm and I watch her hips move in slow motion. We're moving together; dancing together; she's still the baton and she's conducting me. She's fickle in few pleasures and this is one where her stance remains clear. She dances with me because she loves to dance; she dances with me like this because she loves me; she dances with me because we love each other. 

Her eyes sparkle brighter than the diamonds around her neck and love fizzles on her tongue like champagne. She touches my chest as I touch her back and shudder together in something that's not quite slow motion. 

It's quiet and soft and more than enough. She kisses me again and helps me re-dress until we're Queen and Minister, not hearts and bodies who love and yearn until they ache and cry. We kiss goodbye and she watches me leave, I hope not in slow motion. In the quiet we know we'd be man and wife by now as she dances with me because she knows her own heart and she knows her own mind. But she must continue to do a dance of a different kind with the men in the hall for she knows her duty too well. She's respectful and kind and dances so well.

But I love how she'll always dance in slow motion.


End file.
